to their heads, leaving only a stench
of saltpeter and scorched pomade.
Soon the elite sanctuary’s gates
were flung wide to almost anyone
with cash. If not for those shattered

Easy Street fortunes, there’d be noyou pondering these pines, that grass,
that ginger-furred fox, that Taoist
flash of a magpie into the leafy brush.
Why this melancholy, then? You grasp

the meaning of your past, the present
with its evening sun bleeding down
beyond the ridge. No stories here
mention you. But true to your class,
you keep on dreaming of being let in.

*****

Kooser Creek

Despite its swiftness, the current’s clear.
Grass weaves and unravels under the water.
Fish congregate among cottonwood roots
along the bank, swapping ancient tales
of Heraclitus as a boy—how he liked
to splash all alone in the murky shallows.
Out toward the middle, insect shadows
flicker over sunken plazas of sand.
How refreshing to walk there! But don’t
step in unless you mean to get soaked:
the creek floor’s further down than it looks.
Besides, big stones have shouldered up
here and there, sturdy enough to cross
over on. Instead, you linger. The interplay
of shade and sun-gleam’s mesmerizing,
and you love how the water seems to share
the secrets you need at this very moment,
while saving the rest to tell further on.

*****

Field Notes Concerning the Bomb

The bald, jug-eared foreign policy expert advocates bombing Tehran.
The ex-Director of Mossad wants to bomb Beirut or Damascus, or both.
The CEO of Raytheon aims to grow the lucrative cluster bomb market.

*

The audience enjoys hooting and jeering when the stand-up comic bombs.
The gamer whoops when the dusky bomber explodes in a cloud of red pixels.
When Wile E. Coyote gets bombed to ash, the toddler cries, “Beep beep!”

*

The Sudanese med student wants to bomb the arrogant Danish cartoonist.
The talk radio fanatic suspects his neighbor’s gardener of planting a bomb.
The born-again President dreams of cramming a bomb up the Devil’s ass.

*

The émigré poet begs Jesus to bomb the dictator who raped her voice.
The pilot bombs a mud-brick hovel, then flies off above the ascending dust.
Glimpsing himself in a lobby mirror, the Jakarta Hilton bomber hesitates.

*

Its builders, dealers, devotees and victims mean nothing to the bomb.
The bomb needs nothing and desires nothing—not even to explode.
Anti-Buddhas: each bomb’s awakening makes even emptiness suffer.

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ABOUT

Joseph Hutchison, Colorado Poet Laureate 2014-2018, has published 17 books, including a translation of flash fictions by Mexican author Miguel Lupián, and co-edited two anthologies. He lives in the mountains southwest of Denver, Colorado, the city where he was born. He teaches at the University of Denver's University College, where he currently directs two programs: Arts & Culture and Global Affairs.